


Astonished

by sensitivebore



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-22
Updated: 2013-01-22
Packaged: 2017-11-26 11:40:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,484
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/650148
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sensitivebore/pseuds/sensitivebore
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Carson and Hughes, when they went the other way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Astonished

He had left for her. He had left and given it all up — the fine wines, the crisp white tie and tails, the art, the endless library — so they could be married properly and have their own. Had uncomplainingly went to work in a factory. True enough, he was a foreman, not a laborer, it wasn't all that much different in her eyes from what he did at Downton.

But he had given it up, and he had loved it. Had loved it in a way she never had, and then they happened, and something had to give, choices had to be made, and they left. Oh, they left with good will and nice severance bonuses and a little wedding party at Mary's insistence, but still. Still. They had done so because she was thirty-nine, he was forty-seven, and if there were going to be children, there was no stalling.

Elsie looks up from her cold breakfast, laughs bleakly to herself. That has turned out to be a wasted sacrifice on his part. They could have stayed, stayed until it was time to retire, he could have walked his beloved halls and played grandfather to Mary's children until he was sixty-five, seventy, even; they could have retired into a little bungalow there on the grounds, lived out their autumn lives together happily.

Instead, they left, and now here they are. He is at work already, left her with a kiss and a smile as he always does, and she is leaving another plate of eggs and toast uneaten because she can't think about food when her body is a hard stone of shame and self-hatred.

She has not kept up her end of the bargain, and the truly horrible thing is, she doesn't really mind. She minds that she doesn't mind, which probably is a ridiculous thought, but there it is. Elsie has been prepared to give him a child, two, even three if it happened, but there is no melting maternal heart beneath her soft blue dress. There is no longing for a baby at her breast, for a bairn inside. She has been happy. That's the shame.

She has let him down, disappointed him, and yet she has been happy. They have a pretty little house that opens into a small garden, small enough not to break their backs with weeding and cutting but big enough that he can potter in his flowers, big enough for her to peg out their wash and enjoy the breeze. A couple of sleek, spoiled cats wander around purring, curl into loaf shapes on the hearth at night. His pay from the factory is adequate, and she is always working as an extra hand somewhere or other — helping with the sewing when the dress hire gets in large orders, cooking fruit over a huge stove during canning season — to bring in a little extra, so they can have some pleasures without worrying about the savings. The nest egg.

Elsie shoves her plate away, rubs her face. She was forty yesterday, he bought her a bag of sweets and a beautiful little cat statue for her knickknack shelf and took her out for dinner so she didn't have to cook. She is forty and barren and she is very happy.

And he, too, he has been so. He gets cross much less often here than he did at Downton, he sleeps better, he takes more sunshine and exercise in his wee plots of rosebushes and irises. Their quarrels, when they happen, are light, mundane, over the usual things; he will never learn to watch where he's sitting and stop squashing the cats, she will never remember to stack the cutlery point-side down in the sink. They make love frequently, two or three times a week, and it's wonderful fun, still her greatest pleasure; every great now and then, usually during the summer months, he comes home during his tea break, interrupts whatever she's doing, scoops her away to bed for twenty of minutes of giggling, heated, hurried love. He has been happy.

Mostly.

But there are days, usually during the winter months, when he turns inside, when he is quiet and studious and his smiles are preoccupied and his hands at night are tender and holding grief in their wide palms. There are days when she catches him gazing out the window at village children running wild in the first snowfall, hurling handfuls of it at each other. Days when Lady Mary stops by with her little sons and everything lights up behind his eyes and she has to swallow tears, has to push back that lump in her throat is made of hot jealousy and cringing ineptitude. Elsie watches as he sings them silly songs, picks them up and tosses them as high as they'll go, catches them in sure hands. Watches them shriek in delight as they fly over his head, sees how natural he is with them. How much he enjoys the tiny hands wrapped around his fingers, the sleepy weight of a child against his shoulder.

Carson has kept his promise. He has never once lamented leaving, has never once said he regrets choosing her, choosing them, over all of that.

All of this isn't getting the housework done, though; she stands, picks up her plate, does away with the scraps. Goes about seeing to the pleasant chores that make up housekeeping, real housekeeping, not trudging around tiredly giving orders and checking work already done. She is happy.

The months pass and spring turns into summer and he still sometimes makes those silly, romantic little jaunts home during the midday to make love to her, has on one particularly heated occasion tumbled her into the grass behind the house where she was putting out sheets to dry. Pushed her skirts up between them, kissed her the entire time, kissed her even when they were quietly gasping, pleading with one another for release.

She smiles at the thought. Summer brings the heat into his blood; she looks forward to it every year. Hopes it will never change, even when they are sixty, seventy.

They are happy. Happier, because the shadows have left his eyes, and really that's all she cares about. Her back hurts and she wants to eat everything in the larder and she fusses at him more than usual, but he smiles. Smiles about it all. Can't seem to stop these days.

Another few months pass and she is weeping, sweating, crying out against agony, choking back her desire to scream for him, to scream for him to come and help her; it is like being torn apart from the inside and she just wants it over, wants it to end, and finally the doctor is there and he's gently pressing the cloth of ether over her face and everything is finally sweet, silent blackness and she knows nothing until she wakes to a soft September morning light falling over her bed and he is happy, completely, finally and she smiles now.

Either way, she wouldn't have minded, but she had promised him this, this one thing, and finally, she has delivered on that. She can be at ease now, she can relax into her life knowing that she has given him this. Her brow furrows for a moment and she looks down at the little mewling bundle at her breast, laughs.

"What is it, Charles? I don't even know." Elsie pushes at the blanket, tries to see. Winces, readjusts her nipple in the child's mouth, leaves it to suck in peace.

He watches her nurse their child and his voice is rough, gravelly with emotion. "A girl, dearest. She's a little girl." She smiles, reaches out to stroke his cheek with the back of cool fingers.

"What are we going to call her? I've no names picked out, really — is there anything you'd like? After your mother, perhaps?"

Carson pulls his chair closer, rests his chin on his fist as he regards the baby. "No — no, I was thinking we could, if you like, call her Hattie? I don't really know why, don't even think I've known a Hattie, but it's a sweet name." He smiles, brushes a thumb tenderly over the girl's head as she nurses. "She's going to have your red hair, we can see that already."

Elsie regards the baby with amusement. She doesn't feel that so-called instant insane mother-love that they talk about in books, Elsie isn't head-over-heels already the way Carson is, but she's already fond of the funny little thing. Fond of her tiny squashy nose and her serious dark grey eyes, of the whorl of reddish down on the crown of her head. She tries the name out in her head and it fits surprisingly well. It will do nicely.

All of it will, she thinks. All of this will do her just fine.


End file.
